


do you turn into your effigy

by sigh_so (orphan_account)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Gen, Guilt, Identity Issues, Lots of discussion about death, Nonbinary Character, Poetry, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you.", Sort Of, Suicide mention, Will have a happy ending!, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15490698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sigh_so
Summary: monsters are living on the surface. flowey is still underground. chara and frisk are growing up, both too fast for their own good.everything isn't ok, but it will be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this work will have about three chapters but im an idiot and cant find the button to make it say that without adding another chapter. title from tranz by gorillaz which is both a bop and very fitting for this fic

Frisk swings their legs under the table as they eat, shovelling food into their throat. They swallow a piece of bread wrong and it burns, makes them choke on the pain, but they keep eating anyway. Toriel doesn’t seem to notice them falter- she’s busy, rushing around the house and gathering up bits of paper. Frisk watches her from the corner of their eyes as she bustles through the kitchen. 

“You are all ready for school, Frisk?” She asks, pausing to give them a tired smile. It’s loving, and the warmth of it makes Frisk melt a little, feeling safe. They nod, slowing their eating to give her a smile and a thumbs up, and she nods, running a hand through the tufts of fur around her ears. “Your lunch is on the table. You still have half an hour, but don’t dilly-dally, my child. Have a good day.” 

She leans down to kiss the top of Frisk’s head- which is really just a bump of fangs, but they appreciate it anyway- and then she’s off.

 

***You don’t want to worry Toriel.**

 

Immediately, their expression shifts into a scowl. It’s like the air around them ripples, and suddenly Chara is sitting there on the table, looking as natural as anything, like they belong there. They haven’t aged as Frisk has, seem to have just… grown. Like a flower.   
It took Frisk a while to notice, that their voice wasn’t deepening like theirs was, that they weren’t growing taller so much as taking up more space, that though their features were maturing- their face changing to the point that sometimes it matched Frisk’s almost uncannily- they still had the tell-tale signs of fever on their face, a blotchy blush, their pupils bright and swollen in their bloodshot eyes, sweat sparkling on their forehead. Sometimes Frisk can swear they see roots climbing from the scars on their skin.

Chara never elects to present themself when the Dreemurrs are around- they usually restrain themselves to just supportive narration that sometimes borders on snarky. They were hesitant to show this- this form, this conception of their being at all at first. They only revealed it on a really bad day, when Frisk had just started high school and was crying in the boy’s bathroom. Even then, it took a while for Frisk to coax them into sticking around. Chara had concerns that Frisk’s imaginary friend would only make it harder for them to fit in. They were right, but Frisk wasn’t making any progress anyway.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Frisk mutters, shovelling another spoonful of cereal into their mouth.

 

Chara tilts their head.  ***She’s going to be horrified when she finds out,** they say, annoyingly calm and certain. 

 

Frisk loves Chara, they do- they perhaps don’t say it enough. But sometimes it feels like Chara’s mistakes weigh just as heavily on Frisk as they do on them. It’s selfish, but they feel irritated sometimes. Why won’t Chara just let them enjoy their victory?  _ Frisk _ isn’t the one who got themself killed.

 

Of course, immediately after thinking this they feel guilty, and stand up, picking up their bowl and heading to the sink.

 

Chara watches from their relaxed position, and it’s just another thing Frisk finds irrationally annoying. They know it’s stupid to expect Chara to help out- they can’t- but sometimes. Sometimes having someone perpetually relaxed around you while you’re getting beaten up or exhausted while running laps or choking on your food or your wrists are aching from writing all your homework out by hand…. Frisk’s thoughts get muddled for a moment as they wallow in everything shitty about their life.

 

(Of course, the worst thing is that Chara told them, once, when they were younger, that they still felt like they were dying sometimes. That sometimes when they heard Asgore speak, the blisters in their incorporeal throat burned.)

 

Everyone says Frisk is a good person, but sometimes they struggle to believe that.

 

Chara floats over to them as they turn to the bathroom, picking up their toothbrush.  ***You feel sad today** , they say, and Frisk resists the urge to roll their eyes. They look in the mirror and for a moment they see Chara looking back.  ***It’s you!**

Sometimes they wish it wasn’t. Sometimes they catch Toriel staring at the chocolate aisle in the supermarket and they feel like a replacement. Frisk doesn’t even like chocolate. Sometimes they catch Toriel and it’s like she’s looking through them. Sometimes they wonder if she wishes they were Chara.

 

Frisk finishes brushing their teeth and reaches back to tie their hair up in a messy bun. They pull a face in the mirror, scrunching up their cheeks and sticking out their tongue.

***Still just you, Frisk.**

They sigh and rub water into their face, picking at a pimple while their ghostly friend scolds them, before they head back to their room, stripping as they do. Privacy became an unattainable concept a long time ago. 

(Can Chara take their clothes off, they sometimes wonder. Or will it always be Frisk baring themself naked to the world?)

\--

“What’s the answer?” Frisk whispers under their breath. They get a couple of glances but go mostly unnoticed. Good.

***It symbolizes grief,** Chara replies, leaning their forearms on Frisk’s desk and sitting across from them. It’s friendly, and kind of nice. Frisk likes English class. It’s busy and talkative so no one pays them much attention, and Chara is happy to help. They like books, are more than happy to let Frisk zone out and just flip the pages for them while they watch tv. It reminds Frisk a little of when they were kids, when Chara was so certain about what was going on, was so…. Cheerful, almost. It’s funny how they’re quieter now that they’ve got everything they wanted- but Frisk supposes they were never very talkative around Toriel.  ***Not just a symbol, but a manifestation. You could make an argument that it’s unclear whether the raven is even speaking, or is even present- the poem is either a fantastical metaphor or a grieving man’s hallucinations before death.**

Frisk’s mind flicks back to a worry they’ve had for a while. What if that’s what Chara is? Of course, they were there in the underground, there’s no other explanation, but… what if they really are an imaginary friend?

Frisk shudders. No, it’s not true, that would just be unfair. Chara is real, sitting right across from them and smiling like everything in the world is okay, like they’re perfectly happy sitting with a kid who ripped them out of a peaceful state of death and forced them to live through dying again, over and over, to their best friend-

They reach out to where Chara’s hand is, and stretch out their fingers. Chara blinks, and then their gaze softens, and they repeat the gesture.

***You are grieving for the world,** Chara tells them, and Frisk simply nods, suddenly close to tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Frisk is looking for Toriel’s comb when they come across it. They’re shifting through the papers on her desk, Chara bobbing around behind them, threading blistered, ghostly fingers through their hair. They pause suddenly, and although they have no physical presence, Frisk can still sort of feel it- like the air around them has gone cold. It’s funny, because that’s what’s meant to happen when ghosts are around, but this ghost makes Frisk feel warm.

Frisk glances over the desk, trying to find what made them stop, and when they see, it makes their stomach drop. It’s a poem, copied out in Toriel’s neat, gentle script- a little messier than usual, the ink smudged in a few places.

  
_[Tread lightly, she is near  
Under the snow,](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7772503)_  
 _[Speak gently, she can hear  
The daisies grow.](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7772446)_  
  
 _[All her bright golden hair  
Tarnished with rust,](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7788202)_  
 _[She that was young and fair  
Fallen to dust.](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7772503)_  
  
 _[Lily-like, white as snow,](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7789152)_  
 _She hardly knew_  
 _She was a woman, so_  
 _Sweetly she grew._  
  
 _[Coffin-board, heavy stone,  
Lie on her breast,  
I vex my heart alone,](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7789362)_  
 _[She is at rest.](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-6886649)_  
  
 _Peace, peace, she cannot hear_  
 _Lyre or sonnet,_  
 __[All my life's buried here,](https://genius.com/Oscar-wilde-requiescat-annotated#note-7937196)  
Heap earth upon it.

  
There is no title, no author- nothing that would imply she wrote this for school. Even if there was, it wouldn’t help. Frisk knows who this is for, gendered language aside.

They feel conflicted- a mix of jealousy and grief and sympathy. They ache for Toriel, and they ache for Chara, and they still. They still hate feeling like they’ll never live up to them. Frisk saved monsters, sure, but they never really planned to. They killed them, too, in past timelines. Chara only killed themself.

All her life. It stings. Frisk knows grief, knows they could never expect Toriel to just get over the loss of her children, but- hasn’t Frisk offered enough? Is Toriel really still so tied to the past? Buried with Chara and- and him. Asriel. Heap earth upon it. Not that that worked, anyway.

 

Frisk shoves the paper aside, almost angrily, and turns to move, but they feel it- Chara’s pressure on their mind. Gentle. Warm. Like sunshine on a flowerbed.

 

***Can I write something?**

 

Frisk hesitates- they’ve only done this a couple times before. Letting Chara move their body. It’s quite terrifying, honestly- they used to ask Chara to take control of a hand so they could hold hands, but the lack of feeling in their left hand made them panic, and the absence of control make them freak out. It wasn’t comforting enough to make up for that scary feeling. God knows Frisk owes Chara everything- their life, their soul, their happy ending even, but they don’t owe Chara their body. That’s the one thing they’ll always jealously guard.

Still. Chara is quiet. Frisk knows they won’t be mad if they say no. Chara understands when they say no. Chara doesn’t like feeling out of control either. But they might resent Frisk, and  _ god,  _ Frisk is terrified of that. They promise they aren’t jealous, stay out of Toriel’s way, push Frisk towards her and their family and insist it’s time everyone moves on, but that doesn’t stop the fear. Frisk knows that Chara is good at covering pain up with smiles. They’ve seen the tapes.

“Okay,” they whisper, their hand shaking a little as they fumble for a new sheet of paper, picking up a pen and breathing out slowly.

It’s hard to give up that control, and they instinctively fight with Chara for a few moments, but Chara is gentle- backing off whenever Frisk gets too twitchy, slowly folding their fingers down one by one. Frisk doesn’t notice when it happens, too busy focusing on their breathing, but suddenly their hand is numb- not even numb, but absent. Like the opposite of phantom limb pains. Chara reaches up, holding it to Frisk’s cheek, and they close their eyes and lean into the touch, letting it soothe them a little. 

Chara spends a long time writing, seeming to pause and check their memory. Frisk keeps their eyes away from the paper, instead watching the way their hand moves. They reach over and brush their thumb over the back of their hand, and Chara pauses, drops the pen and reaches back up to smooth Frisk’s hair back.

 

***Done,** they say after a while, and then they’re gone and Frisk can feel their hand again. They shake it, reach up to touch their own cheek, and a pang of longing hits them before they refocus on reading.

 

_ Do not stand at my grave and weep  _ _   
_ _ I am not there. I do not sleep.  _ _   
_ _ I am a thousand winds that blow.  _ _   
_ _ I am the diamond glints on snow.  _ _   
_ _ I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  _ _   
_ _ I am the gentle autumn rain.  _ _   
_ _ When you awaken in the morning's hush  _ _   
_ _ I am the swift uplifting rush  _ _   
_ _ Of quiet birds in circled flight.  _ _   
_ _ I am the soft stars that shine at night.  _ _   
_ _ Do not stand at my grave and cry;  _ _   
_ __ I am not there. I did not die.

 

Frisk stares for a moment, at the writing that is distinctly not theirs, and the poem laying next to their mother’s. They are silent, as they so often are, and suddenly they can feel their eyes growing wet, and their heart aches. This probably isn’t a good idea- will probably just distress Toriel further, but they can’t think about that. All they can do is look up at Chara and wish so desperately that they could pull them into a hug. 

 

Chara smiles, but they look close to tears too.  ***Crybaby.**

 

“I love you,” Frisk whispers, and that smile freezes for a moment, falters into fear and then it drops, and Chara closes their eyes, and their expression is more honest and happy than Frisk has ever seen it.

 

***Frisk….**

 

They wipe their eyes and turn away from the desk, leading the ghost away from it. They do. They love Chara so much, more than they love Sans or Papyrus or Undyne or Alphys or Asgore or even Toriel, even mom. And they wish, more than anything else, more than they dream about Asriel, about saving him or freeing him or seeing Asgore and Toriel happy together again, no longer trapped in their grief, they wish that Chara could rest. That they weren’t constantly watching the world go on without them, helping Frisk to replace them. They wish Chara were resting in their death, were free from the pain that Frisk feels, that aching weariness with none of the benefits of life. Chara can’t be hugged, can’t feel sunlight. Can’t taste chocolate. There’s nothing for them here, except Frisk, tethering them to a life they never let themself deserve.

 

***You look around the bedroom,** Chara whispers.

 

Frisk opens their eyes and stares at their bedroom, a collection of drawings pinned over their walls- some by them, some by Chara. Their secret best friend.

 

***Some kids must have spent ages drawing these. They cover the whole wall!**

***....You would think the ambassador of monsters would have better things to do.**

 

Frisk huffs out a laugh despite themself, turning to their closet and waiting for Chara’s next piece of reliable advice.

 

***Whoever lives here is very good at knitting,** Chara says, pride in their voice.  **Either that, or they must have someone who cares about them very much to make them all these clothes. Most parents would just buy them, you know.**

 

Asgore isn’t actually that good at knitting- the needles are too small for his massive hands, so his stitches always end up rather big and clunky, but Frisk’s clothing style is very effortless-hipster, anyway. And…. Chara has a point. Asgore doesn’t knit anyone else dresses and sweaters and socks. Just them.

 

***Someone left their dirty dishes all over their bedside table. Disgusting!** **  
** ***....Fortunately for them, they seem to have a mother who cleans up the trash in their room when they’re too tired to do it themselves.** There’s a pause.  ***She loves them very much.**

 

The overflowing laundry basket.

***You think Sans might be having a bad influence on you.**

 

The cactus on the windowsill.

***You’re actually saving this pot for someone with an even more prickly nature.**

***....**

***You’re a really good person, you know?**

 

The anime figurines.

***Isn’t it great to have friends with the same interests as you?**

 

The bookshelf.

***You don’t like reading, but you keep these books around for a friend who does. You’re a wonderful person.**

 

Frisk sags down against their bed and closes their eyes. They don’t feel like a wonderful person.

 

Chara floats over them, reaching down to cup their face in their hands- fingertips melting through Frisk’s skin.  ***I will remind you how much everyone cares about you until you believe it,** they say, and the earnesty in their voice makes Frisk’s eyes prickle.  ***And I will never leave you until you know you deserve it.**

 

“You didn’t narrate my bed,” is all Frisk says in reply, falling back against it and keeping their eyes shut tight. They feel something warm curl up against their side.

 

***Every night, someone falls asleep here who loves you very much,** Chara replies softly.

 

Frisk thinks they might believe it.


End file.
